


The Science of Walking Through Walls

by DormantAllure



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Instability, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Empty Hearse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, brotherly concern, platonic but squintable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DormantAllure/pseuds/DormantAllure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's network has been taken down, John has his Sherlock back, a major terrorist plot has been prevented. Everything should be fine on Baker Street but John is noticing peculiar things about Sherlock's behaviour. When Mycroft comes to him with information concerning what has happened during Sherlock's long absence  John begins to realize that his best friend  might be having a difficult time adjusting back to his old life. Takes off from where "The Empty Hearse" ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night call

_I've been dragging around from the end of your coat for two weeks_  
 _Everywhere you go is swirling, everything you say has water under it_  
 _You're the tall kingdom I surround, think I better follow you around  
_ _You might need me more than you think you will_

  


“I do recognize a certain risk in assuming you would not fail to see the comedic side of the situation.”  
John glared at Sherlock as he stepped out of the taxi in his friend’s wake. “The comedic side of you being a royal arse, making be believe we were about to get blown to high heaven along with half of Westminster? Don’t stretch your luck, mate.”  
Sherlock opened the front door of 221b Baker Street, John trailing behind. He paused by the stairs, looking over his shoulder. “I did apologize.”  
John cleared his throat. “You said ‘sorry’, then told me I’d looked a right fool and then you laughed your ass off. Some apology. I take what I get, though.” It was such a strange feeling, watching Sherlock, supposedly dead, bounce up the stairs at though nothing – none of it, not Moriarty, not the rooftop – had happened, as if no time at all had passed. It did not feel like a grand reunion, more of a quiet return to form. Save the city, have a cuppa. The only thing reminding John of the pain he still very much carried was the ring box, weighing heavily in his coat pocket. Somehow Mary had seemed to understand, seemed to somehow get it, and not be mad for either John or his strange friend for ruining every girl’s dream moment. What John felt was mostly relief and admiration for the woman. Maddening rage towards Sherlock had not yet disappeared altogether, but he’d much rather have Sherlock back and feel all this than try to continue filling the void he'd left behind when he disappeared. He was so glad Mary had now met Sherlock as well – John had always felt no told tales could do the man justice. Sherlock just had to be experienced first-hand to be believed. 

An hour later, both men had changed into clean clothes and were nursing a steaming beaker by the fireplace. John finally decided to ask the question that had been burning in his mind. “Where were you?”  
Sherlock carefully placed his still half-full mug onto the coffee table, stretched his legs and stood up. “That’s a question for another night, John.” Without a further explanation, he briskly walked to his bedroom and banged the door closed, leaving a slightly bewildered John sipping his now lukewarm tea. Had he said something wrong? Not that he could think of. On the other hand, a strangely acting Sherlock was a healthy Sherlock. Although he did look a bit… Pasty? Paler than usual? Did not seem as borderline-manically giddy as he usually did after a successful case? John waited, listening for noises from the bedroom, half expecting Sherlock to burst out at any minute. 

Nothing. Not a peep could be heared from behind the closed door. Something about it was causing John to worry. Taking a deep breath, realizing the breach of privacy he was committing but deciding the strange night would not turn much stranger with such an act, he peered through the keyhole.  
The room was dark, merely a sliver of moonlight coming through the open curtains. Sherlock lay on the bed, still in his day clothes, asleep, motionless like the dead. The only thing that made John certain he wasn’t unconscious in a more pathological manner was the steadily rising chest.

John smiled. Awol for two years, triumphant return, terrorist plot single-handedly foiled – anyone would be exhausted. Maybe it wasn’t such a strange thing then, the usually chronically and severely insomniac Sherlock just stumbling into his room and literally collapsing into a comatose heap.

John found it rather difficult to accomplish falling asleep that evening. His thoughts kept returning to the restaurant, to Mary, to the abandoned underground car, to the graveyard – to the whole strange mess that somehow seemed to be diminishing in severity every minute he spent with the resurrected Sherlock. How long would the bliss last until the next danger, the next tragedy? He did accept that there was a price to pay for being Sherlock Holmes’ best friend. The man was practically a walking, talking reckless death wish. Axe murderer on the loose? Pursue! Bomb in a box car – let’s go! Using hapless bystanders for hellhound bait – excellent idea! Still, now John had had a taste of what if would actually be like to lose him, to lose the tornado that had shook his miserable existence into whole new swirly patterns. 

John also wondered, like he often had, what it was really like inside that tornado. Did things ever shake its foundations like they did John’s and everyone elses?

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a text message. His initial guess would have been Mary, although it was quite late for that. Well past midnight.  
DOWNSTAIRS. DO BRING AN UMBRELLA. MH

John was not surprised. Mycroft was undoubtedly pleased for Sherlock’s return for many reasons. One of them would be that now he had a legitimate reason for continuing his hobby of spying on both his brother and John Watson. John decided he was in a good enough mood to bear the man’s antics. He pulled on his coat, decided sternly not to pick up said umbrella, and headed downstairs.  
He was already there, lingering in front of Speedy’s dark windows, smoking.  
“Those things’ll kill you, you know,” John quipped.  
Mycroft feigned shock. “Why thank you for the advice, Dr Holmes. With so many lethal things in my possession, I had no idea my cornershop purchase would provide the most hazard.”  
“Sherlock thinks sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” John leaned onto the Speedy’s doorway. It was, indeed, raining.  
“A banal proverb my dear brother hardly came up with himself.”  
“You know what I’m going to ask so spare me and spill, Mycroft. Not a formal visit, I presume.”  
Mycroft stumped his cigarette. “Afraid not. For those I usually require the presence of Sherlock. I came to see you. With a friendly piece of advice and a warning.”  
John did not reply. Mycroft meddling into their affairs? Must be Tuesday.  
Mycroft glanced up to the dark, damp skies. “What it must feel like to breathe this polluted air again, enjoy the lovely weather. My brother loves London, you know. He thinks it’s some sort of a twisted organic thing that gives birth to all sorts of dragons and ghouls.”  
“Stalling, Mycroft. I’m getting cold, and it’s bloody late and tomorrow I have to make up to Mary for the lousy date we recently had.”  
“I’ll wager Mary may have been a bit excited to witness your assertive side, John. I hope you did not break Sherlock's nose. It would not please him to be forced to see the help of a plastic surgeon.” Mycroft shook water droplets off his umbrella, looking thoughtful. “How is my brother, in your opinion?”  
“For a dead man he looks fine to me. Sleeping rather well, which is rare but I’m not complaining. Better this than Paganini and book-case reorganizing at four a.m. Does look thinner, though.”  
“Emaciated.” Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock has not shared tales of his absence with you, am I correct?”  
John shrugged. “It’s early days yet. I’m sure he will, whenever he finds a quiet enough moment.”  
“Those memories are not pleasant. I wasn’t privy to all of it – my network has its limitations – but what I did see and assist him in getting out of was not good. I am certain sharing those memories will not come easy." Mycroft flashed John a rather regretful smile. "You see, in order to function in society, my brother needs a mirror of normalcy, someone who can shake him off it when his cogs start turning too frantically. Greg Lestrade was that at some point, university pals at another, you more lately. For the past two years, he’s had none of that. To make matters rose, he may even have dabbled with some controlled substances to continue functioning in environments without normal sustenance.”  
John frowned. “He’s had a relapse?”  
“Not quite. Hasn’t used anything for months as far as I can tell. Luckily the whole thing seemed pragmatic rather than recreational." John was surprised to find Mycroft looking a bit apologetic, of all things. "What I’m saying is that even cold, calculating Sherlock can be affected by the harsh realities of his existence. He was always the sensitive one.”  
John stifled a laugh. That adjective could hardly be used of the Sherlock he knew.  
Mycroft seemed slightly indignant, as though John was not taking him seriously enough. “I am telling you, there might be… Residual effects, of what has gone on with my brother. Residual effects that might manifest themselves in surprising ways. Ways an untrained eye would not realize.”  
“You consider me an untrained eye, then?”  
Mycroft smiled that slightly crooked, distant smile of his. “Quite the contrary. You might be the only one who knows the adult version of him well enough to notice. Look closely at the small potatoes, John. You might not like what you find.”

  


\-----------------------------------------------------  
The song quote is from "Brainy" by The National.


	2. Air getting thinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is getting increasingly worried about Sherlock. Things escalate at a crime scene.

_I had a hole in the middle where the lightning went through it_  
 _Told my friends not to worry_  


  
  


Life on Baker Street had gotten considerably quieter after fith of November. Many potential clients materialized, but Sherlock was being much pickier than before. At first John thought he was merely acknowledging his rekindled celebrity status, considering many cases on offer to be beneath his stature. This was probably part of the reason, but there seemed to be another issue, one John began to wonder about when Sherlock hastily dismissed even a rather intriguing murder mystery involving a set of siamese twins, an ancient Korean heirloom sword and a fireplace that made ghostly noises.

The client in question was still prattling on. Sherlock was lying on the couch, facing the windows, monotonically throwing a cigarette lighter up in the air and catching it again and again. “Bored,” he muttered, but to John’s ears his statement lacked his usual conviction. “Unconvincing.” “Trite.”

John put down his teacup. Their potential client looked at him, expectant. “He’s not taking the case. I can tell. Sorry, mate. You tried.” John tried to look as empathic as he could.

The client stood up, looking indignant. “Is that is, then? He’s not even going to dignify me with a reason?”

Oh no. John felt like covering his ears, preparing for Sherlock’s typical brutal dissection of anyone who dared to question or contradict him. He was baffled when no such lecture materialized. There was hardly a reason John could think of. Was Sherlock this distracted? Tired? He’d been sleeping like the dead for the past week. He should’ve had his batteries all charged up. John remembered the last words he’d said to Sherlock before The Call. He deeply regretted calling his friend such a stupid thing – a machine – when he had just been trying to save his friends. John had witness many ways in which Sherlock was more human than people realized. It made the insult still sting, at least in John's memory.

The client put on his hat and simply left. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Not your fancy, then? Not interesting enough? I thought it was –“

“No. You didn’t think. You listened. Which is what I’ve had quite enough of for the evening.” Sherlock tossed the lighter behind the sofa.

John leaned back into his armchair. So Sherlock was in a foul mood, then. John tried to think of something to occupy himself with. Early evening yet, nothing on the telly. Perhaps now would be a good a time as any to engage Sherlock in some sort of a dialogue about The fall and what came after. It wasn’t as though they had anything better to do on a rainy Thursday. And for once, Sherlock was not bouncing off the walls like he usually did when there wasn’t anything fascinating going on.

“You never did tell me where you were for the last---“

Sherlock sat up and looked at John, eyes blazing like a warning sign. “I told you. I took care of Moriarty. For good. End of story.”

“Two years! Nothing happened to me, and I could still give a report a bit longer than that!” John had a hard time keeping anger out of his voice. He did still feel like Sherlock owed him more of an explanation than he had managed to blurt out in the restaurant the evening he came back. Restaurants.

“I have no trouble believing you could prattle on endlessly about your docile existence without me. It would please me if you didn’t, though.”

Sherlock yawned but did not look tired.

John knew he would not win. When Sherlock decided to be this evasive it was like trying to walk through a brick wall, talking to him. Luckily John was saved by the sound of Sherlock’s phone receiving a text message. For once, Sherlock leapt to grab it instead of ignoring it or making John fetch the phone for him. “Lestrade. Case in Highgate.”

Smiling, John stood up and grabbed his coat, tossing Sherlock’s long woolly one to its owner. Without a further word, Sherlock carefully tied his scarf around his neck and slipped into the coat.

“Tube or cab?” John inquired, although he could guess the answer.

 

 

An hour and a half later they stood out in the rain, waiting for Lestrade to authorize them to enter the crime scene. The inspector soon walked into the cul-de-sac, rain droplets in his hair and Donovan trailing behind. She smiled at Sherlock but not genuinely. “You’ll like this, Holmes. Right up your alley.” She grinned at her own remark.

“And how long did it take to come up with that quip, then? Two years?” John asked as he bent down to follow Sherlock under and beyond the yellow tape. Usually it was Sherlock’s forte to snark at Donovan. Somehow he did not even seem to have heard her. Or maybe he'd just finally decided it was not worth it to waste his breath on the woman.

Lestrade motioned towards a heap of something at the end of the police-cordoned street. Sherlock strided closer, looking rather sombre. He paused a few feet before the body. “John, why don’t you take a look and Lestrade here can fill me in on the details,” he suggested surprisingly politely.

Usually Sherlock was the first to be poking the dead. John walked closer to the body while Sherlock and Lestrade stood back, the inspector offering the detective a bit of shelter under his wide-brimmed umbrella.

The body was that of a youngish male. It was in terrible condition; half of his head missing due. It looked like the result of a shotgun fired at close range. The gaping exit wound was easy to spot as the body was lying on its stomach. Swallowing as he tried not to think of this as a man, as a human being, John pulled on a pair of rubber gloves he was glad to have remembered to grab from the kichen upon exiting their apartment. The deceased man had tattoos and was mostly nude but for a pair of army khaki pants. A tattoo that had been on the small of his back had been partially cut out, hanging by a narrow strip of skin. John glanced back to Sherlock, who was standing quite still, expression difficult to read. “What’s the mystery, then?” John enquired Lestrade.

“That’s Christopher Gelson. His father, brother and uncle were found dead tonight. None of them have any kind of military background. Didn’t collect or own any military garb like this. All were gunned down tonight.”

John gently pushed the body onto its side. His curiosity awoke with a jolt. There was a pattern crudely carved into the soft upper abdominal flesh with precise knife strikes. A geometrical pattern? A symbol? A letter? “Sherlock, come take a look at this!”

Usually Sherlock would have sprung to his side. This time he lingered, taking his time to close the distance between Lestrade and John kneeling by the corpse .

Donovan, standing nearby by the stone wall of a nearby building, crossed her arms. “Go on, then, freak. Ain’t gonna bite you.”

John returned his attention to the corpse, routinely checking for defensive wounds. Molly would have been so much better at this than he was. The best he could provide was a cursory look. He expected Sherlock to kneel down beside him and poke away in his usually disrespectful manner. When he did not, John stood up, snapping off his gloves and tossing them into a nearby ditch. As a doctor he was not too worried about germs, but something kept him from stuffing something in in his pocket that had been in contact with the dead. Call it superstition.

He glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to disappear into his coat, his neck deep inside the collars. “Well?” Sherlock enquired impatiently.

“Well what? Give me a clue here. Shot with what looks to be a shotgun. Something carved onto the abdominal area. Rainwater’s washed away a lot of evidence, probably. Aren’t you going to---” John paused when Sherlock stopped evading his eyes. He looked, well, strange. Off kilter. Alarmed.

Ignoring John’s worried expression, Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and quickly glanced around. Lestrade was talking to a uniformed officer. Donovan had disappeared. He took a step closer, and then stopped, as though frozen in place.

John dug out his pockets and passed Sherlock another pair of gloves. Sherlock was usually anything but squeamish about touching the dead with his bare hands but on occasion when there was a lot of blood or something even fouler he did make use of the occasional pair of latexes. Sherlock quietly grabbed the pair and continued to just standing.

John took a moment, and then decided the alarms going off in his head probably weren’t an exaggeration. He laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and tugged gently to turn him to face himself.

His friend’s face was chalky white, a thin shimmer of sweat on his forehead. As though he’d seen a ghost. His breathing was shallow, rapid. He was staring at John but not really looking at him. John grabbed his hand. Clammy, slightly shaking. Pulse racing.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “John, please.” It was not a statement of indignancy. It was a plea, the deeply uncharacteristic manner of which shook John to the core. “Please get me out of here.”

 

 

Back at the apartment, Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom without a word. He’d been equally silent during the cab ride back, just staring out into the rain-dimmed lights of the city. John had refused Lestrade’s offer of a ride back. He knew Lestrade would have pestered Sherlock about the case which was probably not a good idea at the moment. John wondered if anyone had heard their exchange by the corpse. Donovan had thrown them a puzzled look as they made their hasty exit from the scene, John practically dragging Sherlock by his coat sleeve.

It was not until by the front door of 221b Baker street that Sherlock had seemed to regain some of his composure, striding almost angrily into the apartment. Paying no attention to John at all.

 

Not knowing what else to do, John clanked around in the kitchen for a snack, preparing a cup of tea for Sherlock as well although he wasn’t sure if he was going to make an appearance. To kill some time, John dialed Mary’s number.

“There you are,” she answered after a few rings, “I was wondering where you’d got to since no texts tonight.”

 “We got a case.”

“Oh. Good for Sherlock, then. Bit a dry spell going on, I seem to remember you saying?”

“Good is not the word I’d use right now.” John could hear the tv on in Mary’s end. “EastEnders?”

“Yeah. What do you mean, love? He’s not excited then? Bored Sherlock driving you mad?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know what he is. Probably not bored, since he’s not getting restless. Tonight he actually got a bit rattled at a crime scene.”

“You know him better than I do, but that doesn’t sound like Sherlock.”

John sighed. “Really doesn’t, does it? And the thing is, Mycroft came by yesterday, told me to keep an eye on him.”

Mary was puzzled. “Doesn’t he do that all the time?”

“He does, but still. Sherlock’s been so strange—“

“There’s a newsflash.” Mary laughed.

“Seriously, though. I’ve no idea what to say to him. He's not his flamboyant, bratty self. He won’t talk, but he won’t do anything else either. He just sort of… is. Now he’s locked himself in the loo, I think he’s taking a bath or something. Usually he just takes a quick shower, nothing more.”

“Maybe he just got cold. It’s raining cats and dogs outside, John. So he wasn’t too keen on stading in the rain with a corpse. What else?”

“He’s sleeping. Full nights.”

“That’s what people do, John.”

John was getting annoyed. Mostly at the fact that the irritating Mycroft Holmes was the only other person really sharing his worry. “He doesn’t! He doesn’t just be, usually he’s manic half the time and all other kinds of pain in the ass the rest of the time. Now he’s sort of timid. And he wasn’t just cold or distracted in Highgate. I think he was having a panic attack of some sorts.”

Before Mary could offer her views on his revelation, Sherlock’s voice called out from the bathroom. “John?”

John jumped up from his chair, fingers fumbling towards the disconnect button. “Gotta go. Talk to you soon,”

“Sure,” Mary replied.

John abandoned his phone on the table.

 

Sherlock was waiting for him in his bathrobe, heavily leaning onto the bathroom doorframe. To John he looked rather pale, dark shadows under his eyes despite all the recent sleeping.

“Are you alright there, Sherlock?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It would seem that my bath was slightly longer than recommended. Bit of a dizzy spell, most likely peripheral vasodilation caused by warmth---“ he mused.

John grabbed hold of his arm as he tried to take a step towards the living room and swayed a bit. “Whoa, careful there.” After a few steps Sherlock seemed more capable and John let go. Sherlock carefully folded his long legs under him on the sofa and leaned back into the cushions.

John decided it was time for Dr Watson to make an appearance. “I know you’ve been sleeping more than usual. Have you been eating?”

Sherlock looked at him, expression neutral. “Quite adequately. You wouldn’t happen to have any paracetamol, would you?”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock usually did not come to him for medication, especially not when it came to such a banal painkiller. “What for?”

“I was going to request your help for removing some stitches. Thought a slight discomfort might be likely afterwards.”

John was confused. “What stitches? Are you hurt?”

Sherlock tried to flash him an amicable smile, but in John’s opinion the end result seemed rather ghoulish coming from someone so pale and frail-looking. Mycroft was right. He was thin as a rake. No surprise in itself, considering he probably had been under much duress, bringing down Moriarty. Quite logical, actually, in John's medical opinion, that he'd be feeling a bit faint. His health habits were appalling to start with and two years worth of fugitive life probaby hadn’t brought much impairment.

“I can assure you that I’m absolutely fine. Just been having trouble getting some old stitches removed myself, that’s all. Can’t really see the bloody lot, and the bathroom mirror hangs way too high to be of any help.” Sherlock stood up and raised his bathrobe to mid-thigh level. On the back of his right thigh a large gash was visible, haphazardly scarred, with old and worn stitching that looked a bit as though they had been made with regular sewing thread.”

John was taken aback. “That looks months old. And not a very professional job.”

Sherlock was looking at him with slight amusement. “Had to make do. No skilled British war surgeons available in Northern Pakistan.”

John knelt down and touched some of the stitching with his index finger. Sherlock flinched. The stitches looked as though they had been done much too tightly. Amateur's mistake. John wondered if this was the only thing his friend had had to get patched up during his awol. “Seriously though, how long has this been here?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Two months, give or take.”

John stood up, annoyed. “Stitches are supposed to be removed after about a week, two weeks, maximum. A week, Sherlock! Why the hell would you wait this long?”

“Sort of forgot. Been a bit distracted lately.”

“I noticed.” John disappeared up the stairs, returning soon with his medical kit. “Is there anything else like this? Are you in pain? Is that why you’ve been so quiet lately?”

“No.”

“Well, what then?” John set to work with a pair of sterile scissors, Sherlock grimacing as he began cutting and pulling out the knots. His initial assessment had been correct – the thread was not medical-quality but instead regular, coarse sewing thread that cut nastily into flesh when being removed. It was a small mirable it hadn't all gotten infected. The tiny puncture holes left by the thread soo began to seep blood when John tugged at the threads.

Sherlock did not look at him. Instead his gaze wondered to the ceiling, to the windows, anywhere else but John. “I often had noone to talk to. So I often wondered what you might have replied if you’d been present.”

John nodded. “Sure. I often wondered myself what you would have done or said about stuff. I had a really hard time coming back here without you, you know. Got an earful from Mrs Hudson for not calling on her.”

“I carried out entire conversations with you in my head.”

“I sort of did that, too, with you.”

John piched off the last stitch, surveying his handiwork.

“Quite annoying, you know. Rather difficult turning you off.”

 “That’s just it, Sherlock, you can’t turn people off no matter how much you’d like that.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand, looking indignant and obviously demanding John’s full attention. “As usual you’re listening but not understanding. I’m still having those conversations. It’s quite infuriating, having two of you present all the time.”

John frowned, unsure of what he was hearing. He pulled Sherlock down onto the sofa and took a seat next to him. Sherlock looked as though he was ready to flee.

“Hearing me even though the real me is right here. Anything else going on I should know about?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “No.”

He was usually a good liar. Now John was certain he could call his bluff. “Really? In Highgate you ---”

Sherlock stood up, walked to his bedroom and closed the door with his usual slam.

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------  
The song quote is from "Wake Up Your Saints" by The National.


	3. Sherlock's war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a little help from Mycroft, John gets through to Sherlock.

Morning came and went. At first John assumed Sherlock was merely sleeping late. At noon John knocked on his bedroom door before realizing it was unlocked and the bed empty. No note, no text message concerning where Sherlock had gone – on the other hand, he never did have a habit of leaving any of those thing. 

John sighed, and dug out his phone. Damn it, he did not like doing this. Turning to Mycroft for assistance. This time, however, he recognized he might not have all the facts. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to get them from Sherlock.  
“Yes?” the elder Holmes answered after a few rings.  
John cleared his throat. He did not like this one bit, indulging Mycroft’s voyeuristic habit. “Can you find him?”  
Mycroft did not reply. Instead John could hear him talking to someone else. “Ah, yes,” he commented a moment later to the receiver, “Trafalgar Square. Just sitting down.”  
John felt relieved. “Just sitting?”  
“Looks that way. Even Sherlock does that sometimes, you know, goes out on his own accord to get some air. Is anything the matter?”  
“Can you talk? Privately, I mean?”  
Mycroft did not reply, but John could hear him walking. John swallowed. “Before I tell you, I need to know a bit of Sherlock’s medical history.”  
“I suppose that is a fair request. I did not wish to reveal more than I had to, considering my brother views me as a busybody already. Not before I was certain of my suspicions. What do you wish to know?”  
“Does he have a diagnosis? I know he loves advertising himself as a sociopath, seems to think it’s some sort of a convenient notoriety label that keeps people off his back, but is it just his idea or has an actual mental health professional said as much?”  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “First of all, there was never been a unanimous agreement on a singular diagnosis. My brother tends to… Be a bit of a challenge when it comes to collaborating with mental health professionals.”  
John chuckled. “I can imagine.”  
Mycroft sighed in the slightly melodramatic way which in his case seemed to come naturally. “You really can’t. Once he learned the entire Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders by heart and spent all his appointments monotonously reciting the tome. He was twelve.”  
John shook his head, smiling. That did sound like the Sherlock he knew.  
“Nevertheless, mostly it’s been antisocial personality disorder with a touch of schizoaffective tendencies coupled with Asperger’s. At first they thought he was autistic. Developmentally challenged, even. But then he opened his mouth and got hold of a violin.”  
John couldn’t resist. “You often boast the similarities of the two of you. Share a diagnosis as well, then?”  
Mycroft did not seem offended. “I do not have one. There was never really a need for such assesment.”  
“And why is that, then?”  
John enquired innocently. “Unlike Sherlock, I learned early when to keep my mouth shut. Anyhow, you feel this has a relevance on my brother’s current well-being?”  
“Has he ever heard or seen things that weren’t there?”  
John's smile was gone now. Mycroft did not seem surprised by his question. “Oh yes. Plenty of imaginary friends when he was little. It was not always easy to discern whether he was actually hallucinating or if it was just the result of an overly active imagination. That, and he often carries an internal dialogue, especially during stressful times. This you have probably noticed.”  
John agreed. “He does sometimes tell himself to shut up when he’s trying to figure something out.”  
“There were some auditory hallucinations back when he was still using. I mostly chalked those up to the drugs even though he never touched hallucinogens as far as I know. Is he experiencing such phenomena at the moment?”  
John picked up a stray sock from under the sofa. Sherlock’s, of course. “He admitted as much. Hears my voice in that head of his, of all things.”  
Mycroft seemed thoughtful. “Curious. Anything else?”  
John took a deep breath. He felt slightly reluctant to plot with Mycroft in such a way, but on the other hand he had been invaluable in assessing Sherlock’s state of mind during the Irene Adler thing. “Sleeps too much, got upset at a crime scene, seems to have lost interest in work. Probably hasn’t been eating much. Bloody awful scar on thigh with ancient stitching. He’s been though the wringer, hasn’t he?”  
“Understatement, John. I do not wish to belittle your experiences in Afghanistan but you did have a cohort of comrades with whom you could share the experience. Sherlock had noone, no assurance that someone could be there to get him out if things got really bad. My brother is no saint, but as little as he was willing to tell me, it seems obvious in hindsight that he has had to do things that would land anyone a lenghty prison sentence in any civilized country. The extent to which he wishes you to know the details is his decision, of course. Even I do not have all the information and I did try to watch him carefully.”  
“As much as I hate this Orwellian thing you’ve got going in general, I’m glad you did,” John informed him, hoping Mycroft would never repeat his statement to Sherlock.  
Mycroft did not reply but John could imagine him smiling. Annoying. “Not that any of this matters, anyhow. He refuses to talk to me. And believe me, I’ve tried.”  
“Leave it to me.”  
This was exactly what John had not wanted to do. But what choice did he have? Cornering Sherlock was not working. The only result John’s pestering had had was that Sherlock had now felt compelled to leave the apartment to get a moment's peace.  
“Take the afternoon off. Go see Mary. Get your mind off things. You might not wish to be there when I confront Sherlock. Danger of damage to eardrums, I’d wager.”

Mycroft and John then exchanged a courteous farewell and hung up.

 

John did, indeed, spend some time with Mary. It felt refreshing to be free off the oppressive air of the Baker Street apartment. They ate at a restaurant, saw a movie, normal things John had been missing out on lately. Afterwards he had tried to relax at his and Mary’s apartment but when evening came and there still were no communications from neither of the Holmes brothers John began to get worried. He returned to Baker Street later that evening. A suspiciously official-looking town car was parked on Baker street. Mycroft was still inside, then. John took a deep breath and entered. At the top of the stairs his army reflexes kicked in as he quickly ducked to avoid getting hit by a flying candlestick. Mycroft was standing by the fireplace, looking patient but somewhat worn. Sherlock stood on the sofa cushions, glaring daggers at his brother. Without a word, John retreated back to the stairwell and headed downstairs to share a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson who was probably getting worried because of all the commotion.

An hour later, the yelling and the sounds of things being thrown subsided. John climbed back up to the apartment. Mycroft was pulling on his coat, looking serene. “John. I was just going to come and look for you.”  
John stole a glance at Sherlock who was sitting on the sofa, looking like he was ready to murder his brother at any moment.  
“So?” John asked, embarrassed to be having the conversation in front of Sherlock.  
Mycroft finished his buttoning, stuck a hand into his breast pocket and passed John a white-capped bottle. “Risperidone. Low dose for one week.”  
John glared at him suspiciously. “An antipsychotic?”  
“Has worked fine before in toning down his inner dialogue.”  
“How am I supposed to give it to him? Slip it into his teacup?”  
Mycroft smiled, looking triumphant. “No need.” He glanced at Sherlock who was not meeting his gaze. “He will take it. Voluntarily.”  
John’s turn to glance at Sherlock who had not moved from his spot on the sofa. “Right, then. But surely that’s not all of it.”  
“The rest, John Watson, is up to you. And him.”  
Mycroft courteously bid his farewell to John and left. John lingered at the door. Then he decided it was time to survey the damage. He sat down next to Sherlock on the couch.

“Disappointed, John.” Sherlock picked up a book and distractedly began leafing through it. He did not leave, though, John noticed to his relief.   
John laid his hand on the book and pushed it aside. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just had no idea what to do. I figured he might have some experience with how you act when you’re---“  
“What? Traumatized? Psychotic? Depressed? I am none of these things, John.”  
John leaned back onto the cushions. Maybe this was going somewhere. Just maybe. “Alright, then. Why do you think I called him? It was actually Mycroft who came to me at first, you know. Asked me to keep an eye on you.”  
Sherlock did not look as angry anymore. “It still doesn’t feel right, you sharing with him what I told you. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.”  
“I wasn’t under the impression that I was being your doctor at the moment. People usually tell things to their doctor instead of sulking and banging the door in your face.”  
“Well, it seems that Mycroft has effectively given you that role with tonight’s little blackmail stunt.”  
John was taken aback. Why was he surprised Mycroft would use dirty tricks with his brother? “What’s he done, then?”  
“He told me in no uncertain terms that if I refused the medication he would inform Lestrade that I was in no condition to work. Another condition being that I talk to someone.” Sherlock spat out the word 'talk' as though it was toxic.  
“You don’t want to, then. Talk, I mean.”  
“You talked to a therapist after Afghanistan and look where it got you. Or didn’t get you.”  
John pondered this for a moment. “It’s true that it took a lot more than just therapy to get over things. But without it, I do think I would have fared a lot worse without it. No professionals, then, if you don't want to. That leaves just me then? Look, you don’t have to tell me everything. Just tell me what you’re thinking at the moment. You do that all the time anyway,” John reminded him, “Although not lately,” he added, sounding a bit sad.  
Sherlock moved off the sofa, deciding to sit cross-legged on the carpet beside it instead. He gazed up at John. “Ask. I don’t know where to start.”  
John knew he had to choose his words carefully even though Sherlock did seem a lot more amenable that he’d recently been. “Highgate. Just tell me what happened.”  
Sherlock took a long pause before replying. “Before I left, I had mostly only seen the end results of human cruelty. Quiet puzzles of flesh, victims I had never seen alive. During the past two years I have had to experience the process first-hand. What happens before we find them, before it's too late. What it's like to make the desicion to rob someone of their life. I find this is currently affecting my ability to enjoy the game. I don’t regret what I did, it was absolutely necessary. Still, I am rather worried by ability to enjoy the consultant work has been compromised.”  
“Sounds logical. Anything else?”  
“Moriarty’s gone. Which means that the collective intellectual capacity of London’s criminal elements is, again, depressingly low.”  
John sighed. Only Sherlock.  
“Anyone would be severely affected by what you’ve obviously gone through lately. Even you. And actually, your reasons for doing all that were better than mine. Afghanistan, I mean.”  
Sherlock looked curious. “Why DID you actually go to war, John?”  
John looked sheepish. “I guess I was a bit bored with being a regular British doctor, really.”  
“You got more than you bargained for?”  
“I think I only saw the excitement and the glory. Didn’t really pause to think war would actually be so… Overwhelming. Maybe you just need to acclimatize back to work. I don’t think it’s a permanent thing, all this humanity catching up with you. It’s a bit like in medical school during pathology and forensics classes. The first time you see someone who’s died in a really bad way it’s not easy. First you just see the gore and the horror, it’s only after the initial shock starts to wear off you start analyzing, noticing things. Thinking like a doctor. A scientist.”  
Sherlock looked extremely intrigued. “Is that what normal people go through?”  
John nodded. “And as for the stupidity of London’s murdereds, robbers and other assorted suchlikes, it’s a cross you’ll just have to bear.”  
Sherlock considered this for a moment. “What about the hypersomnia? It’s very irritating.”  
“Sleeping six to eight hours every night is not a disease, Sherlock. Although after years of insomnia it might seem so. Once you get back on the horse, getting excited about work, I think the problem will sort itself out. Even if you return to your old sleeping habits, I do hope you’ll start eating a bit more than you have been.”  
Sherlock made face. “You sound like bloody Mycroft.”  
“Just promise me you’ll talk. Not just your usual stream of consciousness – although I do miss that, too – but if there’s anything bothering you, just say so. Don't let it get to the point where I'll have to drag you home by your lapels and get one of those blankets you hate.”  
“I will do my best.”

 

That he did. Even though John could tell there was much Sherlock was still keeping to himself about his absence, bit by bit he began revealing things that were disturbing and thus distracting him. John made sure the cases they picked mostly built on intrigue instead of gore and bit by bit, the old Sherlock began to materialize. The voice of John’s doppelganger was gone after a few days just as Mycroft had predicted. 

A few weeks later, when John arrived at Baker street in the morning, he found Sherlock still sitting in the same armchair as where he’d been the previous evening. He seemed lost in thought and wearing clothes that obviously had not been changed for a day. “Couldn’t go to sleep then?” John asked, and Sherlock was shaken out of his contemplative reverie. “Waste of time,” he remarked, grinning. "Lestrade texted on hour ago, by the way. There's a ritually mutilated corpse in Coventry. Sounds brilliant."

John’s smile was wide. Sherlock was back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Feedback/comments always much appreciated.


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